


the sheets clean me off

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alley Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Castiel!Lucifer - Freeform, Chair Sex, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Enthusiastic Consent, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Fingering, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise, Pre-Series, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Stanford, Unsafe breathplay, Wall Sex, basically non-con with some very slight wiggle room, jerking off while possessed, started as a 5+1 fic but got out of hand, this is objectively terrible but I regret nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: Sam Winchester is a honey-trap for evil.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nu_breed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/gifts).



> A bunch of times Sam Winchester got seduced by evil and one time his brother took care of him.

***

It isn't like Sam gets into these things blindly.

***

_2003_

Sam Winchester didn't exactly screw around as a teenager. He was a Good Kid, as much as his stupid family circumstances let him be. 

They say college is a time for experimentation, though. Sam's … been trying? His roommate seems to think he's crap at it, though. He dragged Sam out to this bar and has been pretty much literally throwing him at people for about an hour solid. Sam's pretty sure he yelled 'virgin sacrifice!' first at least once.

He does keep buying drinks. That's been okay. At least he approves of Sam's ability to hold his liquor.

Sam tries, he really does. But it seems fucking weird to just straight up hit on a stranger. 

'Man, you're not really giving this the old college try, are you?' Brady says eventually, exasperated but smiling.

'I have no fucking idea what I'm doing,' Sam confesses, even though that's probably super obvious. 'It's getting late, we should just go -'

'We are not leaving this bar with your innocence still intact,' says Brady. He knocks back the last of his drink, pulls Sam into the middle of the dance floor, and Sam's prepared to be launched like a ballistic missile into yet another bachelorette party or gaggle of sorority girls, but no. 

'Just relax,' Brady yells into his ear. 'I'll take care of you.'

He pulls Sam right into his space, and starts to move. It's just dancing, although it's weird to dance with another guy, but they get closer and closer until Brady's grinding on Sam in time with the thumping music. Sam's off his head on arousal he doesn't know what to do with. The bourbon's barely setting him back, he's been drinking it since he was fourteen, although he doesn't want to tell Brady that, he's still kinda sure even after a whole semester that Brady only hangs out with him because they're room-mates, he doesn't want his friend to know what a messed up childhood he has. 

He hates lying but lying's easier. 

But Brady's all up in Sam's business, and it feels unholy good, fucking amazing, and that's what's making the room spin, not the booze. Sam's starting to wish he _was_ the kind of guy to hook up in a bar. 

But like, maybe this is just how friends dance with friends at college, what would Sam know about it? It's not like he has any real prior experience with drinking buddies who aren't his blood relatives. And the rules at college seem weird and different, bent out of shape compared to what Sam's used to. He barely knows up from down any more - he definitely knows he can't trust his instincts to tell him how to behave.

Then Brady grabs Sam by the ass and yanks him in right up tight. Jesus fuck, he's so hard against Sam's hip Sam'd swear he's gonna bruise from the way they crash together. And Brady's mouth finds Sam's jaw and bites its way up, up, until he gets to Sam's ear and he says, 'there's a back room. You wanna?'

Sam does wanna even though he doesn't exactly know what it is he wants. He just nods dumbly and lets Brady lead him by the wrist through the crowd. There isn't a back room, but there's an alley, and Brady slides his hands down Sam's spine to rest in the small of his back and they make out like the teenagers they just barely still are until Sam's slumped and anoxic against Brady's chest, mouthing at his neck where his shirt collar parts. 

'Want you to suck me,' says Brady softly, and his fingers tighten on Sam's sides when Sam freezes against him. 'Hey, you okay?'

'I just. I never,' says Sam hesitantly, because the idea is honestly fucking hot but he has no concept of how even to go about it, he hadn't even _thought_ about dudes, not like, logistically, not ever. 

(Dreams don't count, he decided that years ago. Dreams you have when you're jammed up against your brother in a too-small bed definitely don't count.)

'S'okay, I'll talk you through it,' Brady says, sounding like he's smiling. His hands slide up to Sam's shoulders and start to push down. 'You're a smart cookie, Sam, you'll pick it up in no time.'

Sam goes to his knees in the damp, dark alleyway, and he's already straining against the fly of his jeans. Brady unzips himself and pulls his cock out. Sam stares. 

'Kiss it,' says Brady, and now he sounds a little hoarse. 'C'mon, you never had a girl go down on you?'

Sam shivers and leans forward to kiss Brady's cock, lips feeling plush and hot from kissing and stubble already. He has had girlfriends go down on him, once or twice, and he wasn't exactly taking notes, but. Brady twines his fingers in Sam's hair and pulls gently, til Sam opens up and tries to take him in. 

Tries. He chokes at first, tries to back off, but Brady strokes him and cajoles him and doesn't let him pull all the way away, just gives him a moment to settle each time, get his breath back, and then draws him down and down and down, until Sam's breathing through his nose and his jaw is aching and he's swallowing convulsively, hard as a rock in his jeans. 

God, this is so good. He's drooling and he can't help it and he doesn't fucking care.

'Told you you'd get the hang of it,' says Brady softly. 

There are footsteps at the entrance to the alley. Sam freezes. Brady looks up, and then back down, and even in the gloom Sam can see that he's grinning. 

'Think they're gonna come down here?' he asks, and he starts to gently thrust into Sam's mouth. Sam's cock twitches, and he scrabbles for his fly. He has to get a hand on himself, he has to, they need to finish this before someone really does come down here. 'Think they'll see you? Sam? Fine upstanding citizen, gonna be a bigshot lawyer one day, on his knees here for me? Fuck. Fuck, oh my god, your mouth, Sam, your fucking _mouth_ -'

Sam's jerking himself frantically now, eyes rolling back in his head. Brady pulls out and comes on his face and Sam curls up on himself, face jammed into Brady's thigh as he whines and comes in his hand. 

No-one finds them in the alley. Brady leads Sam home the back way and washes his face when they get home, and they don't speak about it ever again. A week later Brady introduces Sam to Jess. 

Five years later, Sam holds Brady tight and guts him in an alleyway, and in some ways it feels like turnabout being fair play.

***

_2007_

Sam hasn't jerked off in two months. He's vaguely aware that Dean's started giving him suspicious looks, but he doesn't care. Why the fuck would he be in the mood for that right now? All the stress and worry and research just saps his will to do anything but wash in the shower and sleep when he eventually gets to bed. 

He snaps at Dean's awkward attempts to be kind to him, which alternate with attempts to snap him out of his doldrums, and keeps plodding, keeps hunting what Dean tells him to hunt and researching what he knows he needs to know, the important stuff, and doesn't jerk off because the last fucking thing he needs right now is to lose control over anything else in his life. It's dumb, maybe, but it feels like proving to himself that he can be the master of at least one aspect of himself.

And then ... then he starts to get these weird moodswings, and he starts losing time, waking up in the middle of doing things, and one day when he comes to, if that's what it is, he's got three fingers stuffed up his ass and he's unbelievably, insanely turned on. 

He's never ... touched himself there before, though. He gasps into the crook of his forearm, braced against the shower wall, and shudders, because it's strange and new and not entirely comfortable - it's a stretch, there's a burn, water isn't much good as lubricant which he could have told himself if he'd only been awake when he had whatever mad idea led to _this_ \- but god fucking dammit he can't make himself stop because the stretch and the burn feel so, so good. 

He shoves in a fourth finger before he even knows he's doing it, whining and panting and fucking himself wildly, frantically, ignoring the fact that his wrist is cramping and the underlying sensation is of repeatedly knucklepunching a bruise, because it's making hot-cold shivers roll through his body. It's addictive, it's so good he might cry.

Why hasn't he been doing this for years? 

A little laugh tinkles in the back of his head, and he pinches his own nipple on some kind of unthinking autopilot, swears when the shock it twists through his system nearly makes him bite through his lip. 

Fuck, oh fuck, _fuck -_

He comes all over the shower wall and sags to his knees, the water running through his hair, streaming over his face. Something makes him rub the pad of his thumb through the dripping mess of the tip of his cock, firm enough to make him gasp, and then softly over his abused nipple. He moans, broken, into the wall as it makes one more aftershock jolt through him.

He'd swear he could hear that laughter again.

Next time he knows where he is, there's blood all over his shirt. 

And the next time, there's a gun in his hand, he's already mid-swing. Dean goes down with a sick snap, a thud, and Sam lurches forward to catch him except he doesn't - the control is gone again, like he's a dog on a leash that's just been jerked tight.

That's when Sam knows this isn't him, not really, that there's something in here with him.

'Really, Sammy? You opened a dude's throat yesterday morning and you thought it was just a bad day - you fingerfucked yourself raw when you've always been such a vanilla little Boy Scout before … and it's pistol-whipping your pain-in-the-ass brother that you think is your uncrossable line?'

The voice in Sam's head laughs.

***

_2009_

By the time Ruby makes it clear she's not just working with him out of the goodness of her heart, Sam's kinda figured out the pattern, become resigned to the fact that maybe the hard-on evil things seem to have for him isn't just a disturbing figure of speech.

He hates it, but he wouldn't be much of a hunter if he didn't try to find a way to work it to his advantage.

Ruby likes riding Sam like a pony, a sweating, shivering junkie of a pony, she gets off on how powerful she makes him at the same time as she gets off even more on the fact that she's holding the reins. He's not dumb, he knows what she's doing to him, he can read her perfectly well. He knows what it looks like, too, but hey, if sex is all she wants from him, it's worth it. He needs to be stronger, and you always pay for power with your body, whether it's sweat at the gym or injuries from sparring, or ... or this, he guesses. It's not much of a price, either. It feels good. And the Dean-sounding voice in the back of his head says, what kind of red-blooded man would turn her down, anyway?

(Except it only feels good in the moment, it has a comedown harder and faster than the blood, and in the dark of night sometimes he listens to his brother breathe and is violently ashamed of himself - but Sam figures, that's just his head, he's a mess right now, he'll be a mess til he kills Lilith. He just needs to keep doing what he's doing, he'll get through this, and when he's done he'll stop hating himself. It's the failures he hates. It's being weak. He's purging that part of him. He's going to be strong.)

Sometimes Ruby gives him blood and then fucks him, smiles and crooks her finger and strips off her clothes piece by piece until he can't hold himself back any more, can't bear to not be _in her_ , and throws her up against the wall, fucks her like he's machinery. It's good when that happens, it's a workout, she likes it. He can tell, even when he's off his head on power, that she likes it, and he likes it, he likes working her until she goes off around him, he likes holding himself back til she's come twice and then coming inside her, bare and tight and unsafe but fuck it, if you're already swapping blood what's come going to do that's worse? 

Sometimes, though, she makes him wait, she lets him get to shivering and hypersensitive before she shows up, and then she pushes him to the mattress if he's lucky or the floor if he's not, and opens his pants, and slides on top, sits on his dick without putting him inside, grinds off on him until he's bucking weakly under her, and then slides him inside her body and rides him til he comes, til she's dripping with him and he's wrung out exhausted. Then she moves up further and makes him lick her clean, doesn't let him breathe right until she's come all over his face. She's sadistic, Ruby, she's evil and she likes him to know it, but she also likes him to put his aching head in her lap and suckle the blood from her wrist so she can pet him like a cat. 

Sam knows it isn't right. But it's just for now. Saving Dean's life - saving the world - is more important than whether or not he can sleep at nights.

***

_2010_

Sam had thought that, what with Lucifer sniffing around him like a pitbull, lesser evils might give him a wider berth. It'd be some kind of twisted silver lining, at least.

But Crowley approaches Sam in a bar he's staking out in the hopes of a witness showing up, some little nothing case Dean's seized on because it's easy runs on the board, lives saved and monsters killed and barely any sweat broken, while they wait for news on the Apocalypse. 

'Winchester,' he says, sliding onto a bar stool. At least he says it quietly, that's something. Sucks when people bowl up and blow your cover with one word.

'What the hell are you doing here? We're on a two mile straight,' says Sam, resisting the urge to thunk his head down on the bar. Or pull a knife. 

'I'm a demon, not a ghost,' says Crowley. 'I don't haunt crossroads, you idiot.'

'You know I'm not going to just let you make deals here, right? We're not friends. I'm not going to turn a blind eye to your shit just because you've helped us out once or twice. And I'm not gonna make a deal with you myself.'

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he signals the bartender. 'Let me buy you a drink. We should talk.'

Three hours later, Sam's resisted the urge to punch Crowley in the face for offering to open up a vein for him (which, what the fuck?), but for some reason hasn't walked away. He should have, he's shaking with just the thought of … but then Crowley makes a different offer, and Sam freezes.

'No,' he croaks. 'Stop trying to fucking play me, Crowley.'

'Not a trick,' says Crowley. 'Not a deal. I just notice that you're not exercising all your ... faculties ... any more and I worry that it's not healthy, in one of my business partners. To be all pent up. Frustration isn't good for you, Winchester, I don't want you slipping one of these days because you're distracted by a skirt any more than because you need a fix. Let me help.'

The last thing Sam is ever going to be distracted by is a woman, maybe ever again. He clenches his fists, hearing Crowley talk about people like that and thinking that the women Sam's been with have just been _skirts_ to him. Sam doesn't fuck around with people, never has, not unless the girl's come up to him and been clear that that's what she's after - he doesn't go out on the prowl, he doesn't go out to hook up, and if someone does want a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, well, it's still only a maybe.

'Not gonna happen,' he growls. 

'Boys, then?' Crowley asks. 'I don't judge, you understand. I can cater to any tastes you like. I just want to make sure you're fighting fit.'

Sam squints at him. 'Are you ... offering me prostitutes?' he says slowly. 

'Well, if you're not going to take care of your own urges,' Crowley says, shrugging. 

'No, not boys,' says Sam, haltingly. 'And I don't ... do that.' He has a lot of respect for people who sell sex. Hell, he did a few things to be able to afford his rent while he was at Stanford that he'd never tell Dean about. But that just means he's never wanted to be on the other side of the equation.

Crowley squints at him. 'I know you have sex,' he says, as if that's what Sam's talking about.

'I can't believe we are actually having this conversation,' says Sam. He drains his beer and gets up to leave.

'I'll do it, then,' says Crowley. 

Sam stops. Blinks. 

'Excuse me?'

Crowley comes up behind him and lays a very gentle hand at the small of his back. 'I think you'll find I'm very good at giving people what they want,' he murmurs. 

'For a price,' Sam points out. 

'In this case my price is exactly the same as it was before - I help you two idiots and you kill the Devil. The killing the Devil part is what I want out of this, which means that I have a vested interest in you having your head on straight and preferably not in your pants.'

The thing is, Sam's brain has never been further from his pants. He knows, 100%, that this scenario Crowley is painting is unrealistic. 

But it's been so long since someone touched him. And okay, this isn't exactly the romance that something buried and strangled deep inside Sam still wants, but it's also not pretending to be. It's just sex. It's just touch.

He checks his phone. Nothing from Dean. 

'What did you have in mind?' he says. 

Crowley steers Sam out of the bar and down into the street outside, no point of contact except for the tiny pressure of his fingertips, but Sam goes with him to his hotel and all the way up in the elevator to the unnecessarily ostentatious room he's got, presumably without actually paying any money for it. 

Sam fidgets. This is a dumbass idea. Such a dumbass idea. Dean will actually skin him alive when he finds out. (Sam has given up hoping for 'if' he finds out). But Dean hooks up all the time. Dean can't possibly know what it's like to feel like you're crawling out of your skin desperate for a fucking hug, let alone anything else. No-one who knows him will touch Sam anymore, not even a pat on the shoulder. He's poison. And he deserves it, he guesses. 

But he can't stop himself wanting human contact even if he knows he can't have it. 

Crowley opens the door to his room and ushers Sam inside. 

'I expect you're busy having emotions right now,' he says, dumping his jacket, pulling his tie off and undoing the first couple of buttons on his shirt. 'Do you want to do this in manly brooding silence? Because I can accommodate that.'

Sam rolls his eyes. 'No, asshole.'

Crowley comes over to him and starts to unbutton his shirt. 'Good. I'm not that skilled at brooding. And silence is such an effort sometimes.'

'I noticed.'

Crowley lets the plaid sag down off Sam's shoulders. He looks critically at the tight white tee beneath like he's on some fashion reality TV show, and then slides his hands up under it. He's still being soft, like he thinks he needs to seduce Sam or something.

'It's a crime, keeping this all to yourself,' he says, smirking up at Sam while trailing his fingers over Sam's abs. He pulls Sam over to an arm chair, big and wide and squashy, in the little not-bedroom, not-kitchen, not-bathroom area of the room, the bit that houses the TV and the desk, and sits. 'Take your shirt off.'

Sam is absolutely going to say no, except that Crowley reaches out and runs a hand down his thigh, and tweaks the hem of the tee, and looks at Sam like he actually wants to touch him, not like he's a freak and a fuckup and the cause of all the current bad in the universe. 

Sam swears under his breath and takes off his shirt. 

'Now the pants.'

'Am I putting on a show, or am I just stripping because you're lazy?' Sam asks, but he does toe off his shoes, unzip and step out of his jeans. He wriggles out of his socks, too. 

Crowley gives him an appraising look, and indicates with a whirling finger that Sam should do a 180 for him. Sam turns and stares at the wall, and tries to pretend he's not getting hard over the fact that he can practically physically feel Crowley checking him out. 

There's the sound of a zipper behind him, and he bites his lip. 

'Are you going to get over here?' Crowley asks. 'Only I'm keenly aware that I made promises, and I've got a reputation to keep up.'

When Sam turns around, Crowley's nude in the chair, and beckoning to him, and the look in his eyes is hot and hungry, and nothing like that studied, bored tone of voice. What the fuck does Crowley want out of this? Sam can't believe it's genuinely just him trying to make sure Sam's fighting fit. But he can't figure out a reason Crowley might be trying to get him into a dirty deal like this. 

He crosses the three feet of space between them and sinks onto Crowley's lap. 'Like this?' It's fucking ridiculous, he's about a foot taller than Crowley and he has to hunch to fit, but God, they're touching all over, from Sam's knees wedged between Crowley's thighs and the arms of the chair to his arms settling over Crowley's shoulders. So much skin to skin, it makes Sam want to cry with relief.

'Yes, just like this,' Crowley murmurs, stroking one hand down Sam's back to grab his ass, and the other down his front to wrap around his cock. 'Just exactly like this.'

Sam lets Crowley pull him close and jerk him off, leans into his body, buries his face in his neck. Crowley's arm braces around his back, holds him steady as he shakes. It's like being drunk, he feels warm and slow and fuzzily overwhelmed with each stroke of Crowley's hand. 

'Oh pet,' says Crowley softly. 'It's been a while, hasn't it?'

'What do you _want_?' Sam moans into Crowley's skin. He gropes down for Crowley's dick, because he tries hard not to be selfish in bed. 'What the hell do you want from me?'

Crowley twists his wrist and Sam sobs against him, pulsing and leaking into his hand. 'You're pretty, Winchester,' he says, nudging his face against Sam's til he can kiss him. 'But you're not very bright, are you?'

Sam whimpers. Crowley coos at him and gathers both of their cocks into one hand, and it only takes a couple more tugs to make Sam spill all over them both. 

'What I want,' he says, minutes later, handing Sam a washcloth. 'Is exactly what I said I wanted. I want to know my investment's safe. You're a mess, Winchester, but you're the only game in town. And you're clearly jonesing for something. It's in everyone's interests if you can be ... kept stable.'

Sam cleans himself off, feeling worse than he did before now that the afterglow is fading. He gropes for his jeans, and struggles back into them. Crowley comes back to him with a glass of something amber and smoky-tasting. 

'I'd better,' he says, gulping the drink and moving towards the door. 

'Winchester?' Crowley says as he's about to leave. Sam turns back. 'Get your brother to give you a bloody hug, will you?'

***

_2014_

Sam didn't even see this one coming, but maybe he should have.

He's washing his hands, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, avoiding his own thoughts - he's been awake too long, he knows it, but he can't sleep. Not when the other motel room bed is empty. 

He has to find his brother. That's all that's left. It's a mantra, and it grinds through his brain like razor wire, sawing. He has to find Dean. 

Before he can move to the hand dryer, though, a rough hand closes around his throat. He lashes out instinctively, but the attacker moves with him, like they're predicting his every move.

'You don't look so hot, baby bro,' says a voice behind him. 'Can't trust you to take care of yourself, can I?'

'Dean?' Sam tries to turn, but the hand on his throat squeezes viciously. He's forced to look up, at the mirror. 

His own face is a mess of stubble and dark bruised shadows around his eyes. He tries to swallow, and his throat catches closed, the fingers wrapped around it are too tight. And behind him, in the shitty, flickering light of this dive bar bathroom, is Dean. 

He looks good. In the shadows, his eyes look darker than usual, and he's so close up behind Sam that Sam can tell he's in good shape. Strong. Sam tries to catch his breath and can only get the tiniest gasp of air.

'You've been making a lot of noise, Sammy,' says Dean. 'Shaking trees. Looking for me - it's sweet, but it's got to stop.'

'No,' Sam wheezes. He's starting to fuzz, to fade. He _needs_ air. 

Dean shakes him like a rat. Sam's knees are weakening. 'Fuck, you look good like this,' he says. 'I should have taken my hand to you years ago.'

Sam can't help the noise that spills out of him, twisted by the chokehold on his neck. His dick is stiffening in his Fed suit pants, half from anoxia and half from ... fuck. 

Dean smiles wolfishly against his neck. 'And you'd've liked it, wouldn't you,' he says softly. His teeth find Sam's ear. 'Of course, the old me, he wouldn't have been ballsy enough to give it to you, not the way you want it, even though he could see you wanted it.'

Sam struggles, but it's too little too late, and he's gasping for air, wrenching against Dean's hard body behind him. Dean's free hand works its way into his trousers. 'I guess it shouldn't surprise me, that you've got a hard-on for evil, huh Sammy? I mean, you gotta admit, it's a hell of a pattern. Meg, Ruby ... Lucifer - did he make a pass at you? He always seemed like he was into you in ... y'know, the Biblical sense.' He laughs at his own joke, and strokes Sam's cock, ruts up against him. 

It isn't Sam that - Dean's got it the wrong way around -

'Dean,' Sam groans, and there should be more of a sentence there. He tries to sweep Dean's legs out from under him, kicking backwards, but Dean avoids the move, and shoves Sam's waistband down below his ass. Sam's head lolls backwards onto Dean's shoulder. It feels so heavy. The lights in here are pulsing like his heartbeat, slow and sickening, and everything is getting darker. 

Dean's bare cock rides up against Sam's ass, slides slickly between his cheeks, his thighs. Sam moans. His lips are going numb. 

'I'm here,' Dean croons. 'I gotcha. That's it. You tighten up for me, good boy. Gimme a good ride, Sammy, yeah?'

Sam tries to pull away, again and again, but all it does is rock him in Dean's arms, Dean's cock rubbing slickly over every soft dark place between his thighs, somehow sweeter and more intimate than fucking. He stares into the mirror, into the darkness behind him, in Dean's expression and his own eyes. He's asphyxiating, he knows it, he's been choked out before, but Dean's doing it slow and careful, unstoppable, he's doing it to keep Sam's dick hard and his brain offline. Sam's not stupid. 

Dean's going to kill him while jerking him raw, fucking his thighs. Sam's going to let him, he realises, and it's almost a relief after all this time. Sam's so tired. He sags back into the rock hard immovable object of his brother and comes, wet and hot and blackening around the edges of his perception. 

He might say something, moan something, he doesn't know. He thinks he does, but he's too busy fading out.

'You're so fucking melodramatic, Sammy,' says Dean, letting up the pressure. It takes Sam a second to realise he can breathe again, and then he sucks air in like it's water, desperately. 'If I kill you, I don't get to do this again.' He steps back, and Sam falls forward, catches himself on the edge of the sink. 'And believe me, we're doing this again. And again. And again.' He licks his lips, and winks. 

And leaves. Sam doesn't see him again until he's got him chained up.

For months after he's cured, human again, Dean doesn't come within a foot of Sam unless there's a gunshot wound involved.

***

_2015_

Lucifer backing Sam up against a wall is standard operating procedure, he's always been physical with Sam, and Sam's not used to that from people in general, because he's been over six foot since he was fifteen and he bulked out fast once he'd started hunting again, and it's a rare person who'll get up in his space like this, but Lucifer always did, does, whatever, and Sam figures it's because Lucifer's real body is his. Lucifer knows how it feels to be exactly as big and exactly as built and exactly as physical as Sam does, and where Sam is careful not to take up too much space, Lucifer ... well. 

Cas is shorter than Sam. But right now Cas's body feels like a threat and a promise, pinning Sam up against the wall. Sheer mass seems to have been thrown out the window as a parameter here, because Sam's shaking like his shoulderblades are trying to grind him out a hiding place despite the fact that Lucifer, in Cas's body, even soaking wet wouldn't outweigh him. 

Cas's - Lucifer's, fuck - hands are so cold. Sam sometimes wonders if his soulless self went through prostitutes and one night stands at the rate he did just to get warm again, to be touched and not shiver. He didn't sleep, but sometimes the girls did, afterwards, the ones he wasn't paying mostly. He let them doze curled up against him while he did his research or cleaned his gun. Lucifer's fingers wrap around Sam's ribs, and the chill bleeds through his shirt.

'Get the hell off me,' Sam grits out through his teeth, forcing the words out. 

Lucifer smiles at him, teeth and dimples and blue, blue eyes, and hooks his fingertips in Sam's belt. 'Sam,' he says, gravelly and low. 'Why oh why will you never let anyone just help you?' He's unbuckling as he says it, slipping leather through brass, pulling hard enough to make Sam gasp, flicking the tongue of the buckle free -

The belt hisses through Sam's beltloops and his jeans go that fraction looser, and Sam figures he's got an opening when Lucifer's hands are occupied, he could push, he could punch - but Cas is in there too, Cas is vulnerable right now, and if it was just Lucifer Sam would take his shot, but he will not take his fists to Castiel, even like this. 

Lucifer smirks at him like he knows all of Sam's excuses, and uses the belt, folded up in his hand, one loop around his fist like knuckledusters, to nudge Sam's chin up. 'You're such a brave little toaster,' he says, and slides the belt around the back of Sam's neck. 

Sam flinches hard, back against the wall. 'No,' he breathes, staring into Cas's eyes, willing him to hear and break this just like Dean made him hear, got him to throw the Devil off, way back when. 'Please, Cas, don't let -'

'Castiel can't come to the phone right now,' says Lucifer, and now the ends of Sam's belt are both in one hand and he's using it like a collar to pull Sam's head down. 'But your call is very important to us.'

He already knows Sam won't kiss him, it was the one thing Sam managed to hold back in the Cage, so he doesn't even try - just keeps Sam's head bowed, so he's blinded by his own hair straggling in his eyes, and uses his free hand to pull open Sam's pants. 

'Missed this,' he says, cupping Sam's dick in his palm. Sam's not hard yet, but he's getting there, twitching, and he has to close his eyes because he doesn't want to watch that, watch himself get hard against the hand that's healed him so many times. 'It's not the same, is it? Touching yourself, when what you want is someone else to do it for you.'

'I don't,' Sam says. 

'Oh honey,' says Lucifer, smearing his thumb in the slick Sam's already leaking, fuck. 'You do. I know you do.'

Sam rolls his body trying to get some space, but Lucifer curves to his movements. He lets the belt go and it clatters to the floor, and that's a small mercy but it's tempered by the fact that Lucifer then grabs the collar of Sam's shirt and pulls sideways hard until the stitching is practically choking Sam out - and then it tears, finally, blessedly, and he gulps frigid air and shudders. 

'Please,' he breathes, hoarse, aching, weak for the pleasure he knows is coming whether he wants it or not. 'Fuck. Cas, please -'

'It's just me here, sweetheart,' says Lucifer, biting at his ear. 'Don't get distracted, okay? I want you here with me. With _me_ , not your pretty angel fantasy fuck.' He strips the rest of the shirt off Sam, pulling til seams break rather than trying to slide the cloth off his body, til Sam's half-naked, shirtless, with his open jeans hanging off his hips and with Lucifer flicking his nipples. It hurts.

It hurts and it's everything Sam's been aching for. It isn't how he wants it but it's what he wants, what his body cries out for. Lucifer's right. All Sam's ever wanted are hands that aren't his own to touch him. 

He throws his head back against the wall because that's all the distraction he can get from the dick-twitching, sweat-inducing pain, only that hurts too. It feeds back around on itself, and everything is sore and cold and shivering-bright. 

He comes gasping and violent in Lucifer's hand, almost out of self-defence. 

'Please,' he says again. The word breaks in two in his throat. There's supposed to be a 'stop' afterwards but he can't force it out.

'Look at you,' says Lucifer, carding Sam's sweaty hair out of his eyes with his wet, sticky fingers. 'It's almost like your body knows it's better when you're not the one in the driver's seat.'

***

_2016_

Dean finds Sam in the library where he's been ... god, who even knows how long, Dean's been up since five am and it's now gone seven in the evening, and they haven't crossed paths in all that time. 

It's not exactly an unusual pattern, lately. It reminds Dean extremely fucking painfully of how they were just after he got un-demon-ified, and he had to remember the sight of his hands on Sam's body, the things he'd said to him. The things he'd done. 

Sam's hiding - Dean knows the symptoms. Sam's been hiding for weeks, burying himself in research. He says he's trying to find something to help deal with this clusterfuck they've found themselves in, but Dean knows better. Lucifer coming back, that shook Sam to his core. Something happened that Sam won't talk about, and he's been pulling away, further and further. It sets the alarm bells ringing in Dean's head again. 

So Dean's been trying to give him space, but it hasn't helped. He doesn't know if anything can help, but he knows his brother. If Sam didn't want Dean around him, he'd be trying to push him away. Retreat? That's what Sam does when he's licking wounds, not fighting for freedom. Sam doesn't want to be left alone. 

So Dean's done with this bullshit. He goes to the library and pulls Sam away from the bookshelf and spins him around, reaches up to cup his stupid, beautiful face in both hands. 

'Dean -'

'Shhh,' says Dean, leaning up. 

Sam's time in Hell was basically like being in solitary, as far as Dean knows - contrasts to his own spell down there, which was like Guantanamo on steroids - and it's left his little brother terminally touch-starved. Used to be Sam'd squirm out of hugging Dean, when they were kids, hell, even after Stanford, but now Dean knows his hands are his best weapon when it comes to Sam, to helping him. 

Sometimes he's amazed Sam can even look at him any more, let alone touch him, after everything Dean's done to other people and to him, Sam, with these hands. He's amazed Sam lets anyone touch him at all, but Sam quiets when Dean's thumbs stroke the sides of his neck. Dean tugs him down, meaning to kiss him on the forehead, like Mom used to do when she put him to bed, but Sam won't go all the way. He closes his eyes and leans in, instead.

Dean shouldn't. But he's only fucking human, and he's tired and his brother is gorgeous in the warm library-lamp light. 

Sam's mouth is soft and chapped under Dean's, and it falls open on a breath when Dean kisses him. His hands catch Dean's elbows, but Dean won't let him stop this, not when the tension is finally bleeding out between them like a severed artery.

'What are you doing?' Sam asks him when they finally pull apart. He's curved towards Dean like he just wants to be held, but his voice is sad and final-sounding. 

'Something I should have been doing for years,' says Dean, as if he'd thought this out instead of being blindsided by his brother's mouth on his. But Dean's best plans are always the Hail Mary plays. 'Sammy, you gotta forgive me for letting you go on like this so long.' He pets Sam's hair, then reaches down to take him by the wrist. 'C'mon. Got something for you.'

'Dean, please. I don't -'

Dean stops. 'You don't what?' 

He prides himself that he knows what's best for Sam, he has forever. But he's starting to understand that he can't decide _for_ Sam. Dean may be dumber than a bag of hammers sometimes but he can learn his goddamn lesson, eventually. 

Sam bites his lip. 

'What don't you want, Sammy?' Dean keeps his voice low, soft and warm. It's a bedroom voice, and he's not ashamed to use it now. Sam needs him.

'It's not that I don't want -' Sam waves his hand at Dean, starting to blush pink.

Dean slides his hand into Sam's back pocket and tugs him closer. 'No, I can tell,' he says. Sam's hard against his thigh. 'Don't be shy, Sammy. I got you.'

'It just - it never helps,' Sam blurts out, twitching away. 'It feels good at the time - but afterwards. I feel. God, I don't know. I'm sick of feeling unclean, Dean.'

'I want to make you feel good, Sammy,' says Dean, now not daring to touch him even though he's aching to smooth all that tension and hatred out of his brother's body. 'This isn't dirty.'

'You aren't,' Sam says, taking another step back. He's mussed and pretty and his mouth is so red Dean just wants to bite at it and make it redder. 'It's me. You don't know what I've done.'

'Whatever it is, I don't care,' Dean says. 'Bet you any money, I've done worse. That's the past, Sammy. It's done, and the shit we've pulled, we've paid for it. More than. We don't owe anyone shit any more.'

Sam shakes his head, but Dean is done with this. 'And if you think you're dirty, I guess. I'm just. Gonna have to. Clean you up,' he says, punctuating the sentence with kisses, dirtier and dirtier themselves until Sam's limp up against the bookshelves. Dean pulls him out of the library, up the stairs, to the showers. 

He puts Sam up against the tiles with a lingering kiss that he hopes tells him to stay put, and goes to turn the water on. 

When it's just the right side of scalding, he goes back to Sam. The shower's billowing steam around them and it puts everything in soft hazy focus as he reaches for Sam's fly. 

Sam flinches under his hands, though, and that's not right. So Dean changes tack. 'Hey,' he says softly, kissing Sam's mouth, his jaw. Kisses his neck, where his pulse is thrashing under the skin, and runs his hands down the front of Sam's shirt to start working on those buttons. Every inch of skin he bares he presses his mouth to, gentle like Sam's a virgin on prom night. 

Eventually Sam's heartbeat slows, in the warm fug of the shower and under Dean's touch, until Dean feels okay with touching his fly again, or … feels like Sam might be okay with Dean touching his fly again. 

'Can I?' he asks, though, rather than just going for it, and hooks his fingertips just under the top of Sam's waistband. He's usually more of a reading the body language kind of a guy, in bed, but it feels right to ask, to let Sam tell him for sure that he's on the right track. 

Thank fuck they have somehow unlimited hot water in here, seriously. Sam's hair is starting to get damp, falling in waves around his face even though he's tried to tuck it behind his ears like three times. He's blushing again, pink all over up his chest and his neck and his cheeks, but he nods. 

Dean reaches out and cups Sam where he's tenting the front of his jeans. 'This okay?' he asks. It's almost a whisper. The vast fucking shower room feels like a church all of a sudden. 

Sam makes a strangled, rumbling sound deep in his throat, and his eyes flutter closed. 'Don't tease,' he pleads. 

'Not gonna,' says Dean, unzipping him. 

It's like a dam breaks, after that - Sam all of a sudden is tripping over himself to get his own hands on Dean. They stumble under the hot water together, naked and clinging to each other like if they're not touching they'll die. Sam's hands are huge, which Dean kinda knew already, but they feel different when they're curled around his hips from how they feel when they're stitching up his cuts. Different and better. 

Shakily, Dean reaches for the soap. That puts space between him and Sam, and Sam makes a noise, a nope kinda noise, and pulls them tighter together. Dean wriggles his hand with the bar of soap in it between their chests and starts to work. 

It's like giving a really slippery massage, kinda. And Sam gets into it - the more Dean pushes and pummels him, the more he lets Dean back off, until the soap bar itself is somewhere on the shower floor and Dean's smoothing his wet slick hands over Sam's ridiculous pecs, up to his shoulders. 'Turn around, Sammy,' he says, getting a dark, hot little shiver in his voice from just thinking about what he's planning to do next. Sam's teeth are worrying his bottom lip raw, his eyes are clenched shut. He turns when Dean gives him a little push. 

Dean lets himself look down. Fuck. There's miles of Sam and every fucking inch is gorgeous, especially running with water and soap suds. He drops to his knees and leans forward. 

The first tiny nip makes Sam jerk, but Dean kisses where he bit, like an apology, and then reaches out and spreads Sam wide, gets his first look at that pretty hole. 

He can't help the urge to kiss Sam there. He fucking loves doing this, going down on someone, any way he can - having a girl's thighs around his head or a guy's hands in his hair, that clench and release and shake you get from someone you're driving out of their mind. Dean's best weapon was always his mouth. He kisses softly, and yeah okay, that is a tease, a deliberate tease, but Dean's not cruel. He doesn't keep Sam waiting, no, he edges his thumbs in and makes just a tiny bit more space for himself, starts to work his tongue against that tiny tight curl. 

Water sluices down Sam's back and over Dean's face, carrying the faint taste of soap. Dean pushes, pushes, pushes, and Sam sobs and writhes against the shower wall. Dean noses his way down until he can kiss Sam's balls, soft and tight up against his body, and then he takes pity, just a little, and reaches around. Sam's so hard, his dick lurches when Dean's hand closes around it. 

'Fuck, Dean,' Sam breathes. He reaches down and back, sort of pets Dean's hair and face distractedly, more like he's trying to ground himself, get some kind of anchor, than anything else. He groans when Dean blows cold air over the wet mess of his ass, swears the air blue when Dean lets go of his cock so that he can put those fingers somewhere else. 

Dean knows for a fact, an absolute stone cold hard fact that Sam's done this before. But something in the way Sam freezes when Dean gets one finger in just to the first knuckle doesn't sit right. Like before, something in the way they're riding tells Dean he wants the brakes here, not the accelerator like he was planning. He doesn't push any further, mouths soft kisses at the place where the hard length of Sam's thigh muscle swells into the curve of his ass, and just works slowly. Finger a little bit in, tongue back where it belongs, getting Sam sloppy-wet and groaning for him, before he can push a little bit more in, a little bit more.

'Oh, god,' says Sam weakly when Dean tries for a second finger. 'Dean, shit, please -'

'Shhh, sweetheart,' says Dean, hooking those fingers juuuust slightly on the outstroke, and Sam twists under him like he's been shot. It's a fucking reflex, okay, petnames at a time like this - _sweetheart, darling, sugar, babe, baby_ \- and he's about to apologise when he realises that Sam's starting to relax. 'There,' Dean says, carefully, pushing in, two fingers but all the way, 'there, sweetheart, don't you worry, gonna take good care of you.'

Sam's not a virgin and this sure as shit ain't prom night but sometimes you just gotta do things right, okay? Dean's gonna make Sam come on his fingers before this goes any goddamn further, because that's the right thing to do. 

Doesn't seem like Sam's on board, though - he's pulling away again. 'Hey, Sammy,' Dean says, catching him by the hip. 'What's the matter, huh?'

Sam's got his forehead leant up against the tile wall. His chest is heaving, his fists and eyes are clenched shut. 'Don't - slow, okay?' he says, soft and harsh. 'Go slow.'

Dean eases his fingers back immediately. 'Am I hurting you? Fuck, Sam -'

'No - no, just.' Sam's back roils, shudders. 'Gonna come, if you keep on. And I don't … I don't want to stop.' His voice disappears into the steam, and Dean smiles against the small of his back, and pushes back in, in, in, presses his open mouth back to where his fingers are working, spreads Sam as wide as he can. 

'We don't have to stop,' he promises, the words coming out muffled because he can't bear to lift his head properly, gotta keep eating Sam out, sloppy and pretty and perfect. 'Sammy, sweetheart, I've got you, okay, I'm not gonna stop.' He reaches up, pulls at the crook of Sam's elbow til he can get at his hand. Dean moulds Sam's long, long fingers around his long, long cock. 'Touch yourself,' he orders. ' Want you to come for me, baby.'

Sam groans, but he does what he's told. That makes Dean flush hotter than the rimming and the picture he's got in his head of getting Sam into his bed and keeping him there til he passes out. 

'That's it,' Dean murmurs, licking hard, three fingers in now, fucking Sam good and hard with them. 'That's my boy, Sammy, that's my good boy, you jerk yourself for me. Just like that -'

Sam's knees buckle. 'Oh, oh _fuck_ ,' he says faintly, and starts to come all over the wall, clenching around Dean's hand. 

'There you go.' Dean straightens up, curving up against him tight, letting his own cock ride Sam's hip. He doesn't pull his fingers out. 'There, Sammy, hey. Hey.' God, it feels so good, it feels so fucking good, he twists his fingers just to feel Sam's body twist back against him, and it doesn't take more than that. 

The world goes wet and warm and hot, and he comes rutted tight against his brother, not a sliver of space between them, just the way he likes it.

Sam's still shaking, tiny tremors up and down his spine. 'Hey, baby,' Dean say again. It's like he's forgotten other words exist, but who cares? Who needs other words? These are the only ones that count. He frees his fingers and strokes Sam everywhere he can reach, all wet and sticky. Fuck, they're a mess, and it's. Yes. Perfect.

Except then Sam pulls back, grabs the washcloth and starts to clean himself off, and he won't meet Dean's eyes, even when Dean tries to help him. 

'Sammy?'

Sam reaches out and turns off the water. 

'Sam? Sam!'

Sam finally looks up. 'What?' he asks. It's not aggressive, he's not pissed, he's just … blank. Resigned. Closed down, somehow, and Dean suddenly remembers leaving him before, in another bathroom, walking away fucking gleeful in the knowledge that Sam was panting and come-covered and unsatisfied behind him. Fuck. It barely ranks, compared to some of the other shit he did as a demon, but god if he could take one thing back it might just be that. 

His face must show what he's thinking, because Sam flinches. 'I thought we were -'

'Were what? Done? Dean asks. 'Oh, Sammy, no. We're not done.' He pins Sam up against the shower wall again and muscles his way between Sam's thighs. 'Come to bed with me,' he whispers into Sam's ear, and can't help the fierce hot rush he gets when Sam moans in the back of his throat. 'I'm gonna fuck you raw and lick you clean again after, Sammy. Gonna make you lose it over and over and over again til my fucking room stinks of you. Not gonna let you out of my sight for a week, sweetheart.'

***

Dean makes Sam come three times, til he finally sacks out and stops twitching towards the door every time he thinks they're through. He shoves Sam onto his side and wraps himself around him like an octopus. 

When Sam wakes up, Dean's gonna be here. If Dean has anything to do about it, Sam's never gonna wake up alone again.


End file.
